


Eagle Day

by Persiflage



Category: Foyle's War
Genre: Alternate Universe, Episode Related, F/M, Historical, Hurt/Comfort, Romance, Wordcount: 1.000-5.000
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-03-21
Updated: 2012-03-21
Packaged: 2017-11-02 07:48:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,990
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/366645
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Persiflage/pseuds/Persiflage
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Foyle is Sam's White Knight.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Eagle Day

**Author's Note:**

> A bit of a re-write of the scene in Eagle Day where Sam tries her hand at undercover work. The conversation at the start of this story, and the one between Sam, Foyle and Milner in Foyle's office towards the end are both taken verbatim from the episode.  
> Disclaimer: Anthony Horowitz owns Foyle's War – I'm just playing with them!  
> Beta: dancesabove on ff.net

"Why don't we just go in?" asked Sam as they waited outside Graeme's house.

Foyle bit back a smile at her characteristic desire to be doing. "Well, we can't. He hasn't _done_ anything. And if I was to ask him about Andrew, he wouldn't tell me anyway. Why should he?"

"Well, we could follow him back to where he's based."

"We'd get arrested as spies," Foyle said dryly.

Sam gave a little huff of laughter. "I'm going to miss all this."

"Are you?"

"I've enjoyed working with you, sir. I'm sorry I've been – " She paused and Foyle waited for the rest of the sentence.

"Been what?"

Sam looked everywhere but at him before she answered. "You know."

"Yep." He saw her look at him, one eyebrow raised as if she hadn't expected him to agree with her. "No, you've been fine, Sam," he said reassuringly. He was going to miss her, too, horribly, far more than he could express. He'd tried, with her father, but he wasn't sure he'd convinced Iain Stewart; Foyle knew that his own reticence was often a handicap.

"Is that him there?" Sam asked, breaking into his wandering thoughts as a man left the house they'd been watching.

"Could be. Looks like it. Here we go."

Sam started up the car and drove after Graeme, who had only gone as far as the Lower Red Lion pub.

"Isn't this the pub where we interviewed Joyce Davies?" she asked.

"Yes, Henley Terrace is just around the corner." Foyle waited for her to pull over. "Will you wait here?" He reached for the door handle.

"Sir?"

Foyle looked at her.

"Why don't you let me do it? Isn't there more chance he'd talk to a girl?"

"D'you think so?" Foyle asked, although privately he thought it far more likely Graeme would talk to Sam than himself.

"Well, if I can catch him alone, having a drink, he might give me a clue." She looked at him hopefully, and so young.

Foyle chewed on his cheek. "All right. Be careful."

Sam grinned, climbed out of the car, then tossed her cap onto the back seat. Foyle sat back, pushing up the brim of his own hat, then resettling it as he cleared his throat. He waited a couple of minutes for Sam to enter the pub and make contact with Graeme, then followed her inside to lurk in the background. 

It wasn't that he didn't trust her, or that he thought her incapable, it was simply that he knew, far better than Sam, exactly what kind of man Graeme was. Even if he hadn't promised Sam's father that he'd look after her, he'd still do so on his own account. He'd come to suspect that Sam had no real idea of just how attractive she was to men, whether in uniform or in civvies, but he knew that to a man of Graeme's stamp, Sam's beauty and youthful vitality were just so much meat and drink.

He listened carefully to their conversation, keeping well out of their line of sight. He mentally approved of Sam's efforts at casual questioning; with some training and a bit of experience, she'd make a fine detective, as she had good instincts, as well as intelligence and the ability to think on her feet. (He doubted he'd ever forget Keegan's encounter with Sam's borrowed dustbin lid on her very first day working for him.)

When Graeme pinched Sam, Foyle stepped in. He clapped the other man on the shoulder and half turned him away from the bar.

"Apologise to the lady," Foyle said, his lips pursed tightly. He saw Sam start to open her mouth and he flicked her a glance, feeling relieved when she subsided without speaking.

Graeme attempted to pull away and Foyle tightened his grip. "I wouldn't," he said in a friendly tone. "Now, apologise to the lady."

"I'm very sorry, miss," Graeme said. Foyle heard the sneer in his voice and barely refrained from hitting him.

"Now we're going outside for a quiet chat," Foyle told him. "Sam, ring Rivers and ask him to send a car along and two men." He saw her give a quick nod, then he pulled on Graeme's shoulder. "Move."

Graeme did so, swinging around fast and bringing up his arm for a blow, but Foyle was quicker, blocking Graeme's punch, then knocking the man down off his stool to sprawl on the floor.

Foyle looked down at him, shaking out his hand and flexing his fingers, then looked up at Sam, who was staring at him with her eyes full of fervent admiration. "Rivers, Sam," he reminded her gently.

"Yes, sir," she said smartly, and hurried to the telephone.

The pub landlady was staring at him, so he pulled out his warrant card and apologised for brawling.

"No damage done," returned the woman with a smirk. "Besides, he had it coming to 'im if you ask me."

Foyle's lips twitched at that, then he turned to Sam as she hurriedly returned.

"They're on their way, sir."

"Good. I want you to go and wait in the car." Sam opened her mouth, but he shook his head at her. "Sam."

She muttered a "Yes, sir" and went out, looking distinctly subdued.

* * * * * * 

Ten minutes later, Graeme was on his way to the station, and Foyle rejoined Sam in the Wolseley. She hurried into speech immediately.

"I'm terribly sorry, sir. I know I messed up and let you down, and – "

"Sam."

She fell silent, her eyes downcast, and he fought the urge to reach out and comfort her.

"Look at me, Sam." He waited until she'd made eye contact, then spoke softly. "You didn't mess up, or let me down, or anything else. It was a good effort on your part, and just bad luck that he rumbled you so quickly."

"I think Dad was right," she said quietly, her eyes full of misery. 

"I disagree, Sam. No decent man would have treated you the way Graeme did. The fault was his, not yours."

"Yes, sir."

She didn't sound convinced, and Foyle wondered how he could persuade her that he was telling the truth. Maybe he should just give her time to think things over, then talk to her again.

"Back to the station then, Sam."

"Yes, sir." She reached for the gear lever, then paused. "I wanted to thank you, but you didn't give me the chance earlier."

"For what?"

"For stepping in with Graeme." She was blushing as she met his eyes. "It was like one of those tales where the White Knight rushes in to save the damsel in distress."

Foyle raised an eyebrow. "Think I'm a little too old to be a White Knight," he told her, "and you're no one's damsel."

"No, sir. I'm not nearly pretty enough." She started the car and pulled away from the curb.

"That wasn't what I meant, Sam." She glanced at him. "You're no damsel in distress. Remember Keegan?"

She choked back a laugh – or maybe it was a sob, he wasn't sure. "I can't forget, sir, but I wish you would."

He shook his head, deciding to leave it at that.

* * * * * *

Despite Foyle's best efforts, he could get nothing out of Graeme, either concerning Andrew or the mystery at which Anne had hinted, so he let the man go, albeit reluctantly. Milner had already gone home, and the station was nearly deserted by the time he'd finished his notes.

As he was putting his notes into the case file, there was a soft knock on his door and he called, "Come."

The door opened to reveal Sam, looking weary and subdued. "Are you nearly ready to go, sir?" she asked.

"Nearly, yes." He nodded at the chair on the other side of his desk. "Take a seat for a moment."

She shut the door, then crossed to the chair and sank into it. Her hands were clasped tightly in her lap and her whole body was taut with tension. Foyle got to his feet and came around the desk to crouch beside the chair.

"Sam."

"Sir?" 

"You mustn't blame yourself for what happened today. It wasn't your fault. If anyone's to blame, it's me, for letting you tackle Graeme on your own. I should have known better, knowing what sort of man he is."

"I – " She swallowed hard, the gulp audible in the silent room. "I was scared, when he put his arm around me and held me so tightly. I – I thought he was going to hurt me."

Foyle met her eyes and saw tears shimmering in them. "I'm sorry, Sam." He gently clasped both her hands in his left hand, pulling a handkerchief from his jacket pocket with the other. "Here."

She took the neatly folded square of cotton, with a murmur of thanks, then mopped at her eyes. Foyle remained where he was, holding her left hand in his, until she began to cry in earnest. He let go of her hand and pulled her forward until her head rested on his shoulder.

"It's all right, Sam," he told her, rubbing her back between her shoulder blades. "Let it all out, you'll feel better for it."

He waited in silence, rubbing circles in a soothing manner, until the storm of sobs subsided.

"Better now?" he asked when she straightened up.

"Yes, sir. Thank you." She looked less tense, he noted. "Sorry about your jacket." 

"Doesn't matter," he said quietly. "Let's get out of here, eh?"

"Yes, sir."

* * * * * *

Sam went to the Ladies to wash her face, then joined him in the corridor, and they said their goodnights to the duty sergeant before making their way outside. 

"Tell you what, let's go and have supper. I don't know about you, but I don't feel like cooking tonight."

"That's jolly decent of you, sir."

He caught sight of her face and felt a rush of warmth at the sight of Sam's familiar smile. "You know, I was always under the impression that the way to a _man's_ heart was through his stomach," he teased as they climbed into the car.

Sam blushed. "Well, Mother's always said I'm a tomboy," she observed.

Foyle lifted an eyebrow. "Really? Well, when you're dressed up for a special occasion, you look all woman, so I don't think you need to worry too much."

She ducked her head, her blush deepening, and Foyle wondered if he'd gone too far.

"Sorry, Sam, I didn't mean to embarrass you."

She lifted her head. "That's all right, sir." She started up the car. "Where to?"

"Let's try that new restaurant, The Cliff Top," Foyle suggested.

She nodded, put the car in gear, and drove off.

* * * * * *

"Do you think your father will let you remain in Hastings?" Foyle asked Sam as they waited for their starters.

"I don't know, sir. I hope so. I can't imagine what I'll do at home in Lyminster. Mother's got the women of the parish well-organised, so I'll just be an extra pair of hands now and again. Father will probably only let me out if I'm accompanied by at least two or three matrons."

Foyle's lips twitched and Sam gave him a brief, conspiratorial smile. 

"Didn't you say your mother's unwell?" he asked.

Sam nodded. "I don't know what, exactly, is wrong with her. She just talks about her nerves being bad, usually when she's telling me that I don't have a single nerve in my body." She fiddled with her soup spoon. "I only know Mother's never been very robust, which is quite awkward for a vicar's wife, as a lot of the parish business falls on the vicar's wife just as much as on the vicar."

"That must have made things difficult," Foyle said sympathetically.

"I found it quite hard when I was younger," Sam admitted. "I went through a bit of a rebellious streak in my early teens, which is why Father is so worried about me now." She flushed. "I didn't do anything really awful, but I was heading that way."

"What happened?" He wondered if she'd tell him; Sam had a very open manner, as a rule, and didn't hesitate to talk about anything and everything, but this was a more personal conversation than they'd ever had before.

"A friend of mine got involved with a young man and – " Sam glanced around, but the restaurant was quiet and most of the diners were seated at the other side of the room. "She got pregnant." She snuck a glance up at Foyle, her face flushed. "She tried to abort the baby herself, and bled to death."

"I'm sorry," Foyle said gently.

Sam nodded. "I had a shock, when I found out, and that scared me back onto the straight and narrow. But Father can't forget what happened, so he worries about me, and especially now that I'm working with lots of men." She took a sip of water. "When I was at the MTC, he was less worried because we were all girls together, although I didn't tell him half of what went on there or he'd have ordered me home before I'd finished training."

Foyle rubbed a finger across his lips, feeling that laughter was an inappropriate response to this revelation.

"I can understand your father's concerns," he said. "I hope, however, that I managed to allay most of his fears."

"He told me he'd make a final decision tonight and tell me tomorrow," Sam said.

"Well, if you do go back to Lyminster, you must write and let us know how you're getting on. And maybe you can come and visit us occasionally."

Foyle wondered if she would write or visit. He hated the thought of Sam going back home; he'd miss her chatter and laughter, and wild theories, and her too-fast driving that nevertheless gave him a secret thrill. 

"Yes, sir."

The waitress brought their starters, and the conversation became more general after that.

It wasn't until Sam was driving them back into Hastings that she brought the subject up again.

"Did you mean it about writing, sir?"

Foyle cocked his head. "Mean it?"

"Do you really want me to write, if I have to go back to Lyminster?"

"Of course," Foyle said. "I wasn't just saying that to be polite, Sam, if that's what you thought.

"And will you write back sometimes, if you're not too busy?"

"I promise."

Her face brightened immediately, and he found himself hoping her father would let her stay; since, if nothing else, it would spare him from having to keep his promise as he knew he had always been a poor correspondent. He slouched a little lower in his seat, pulling his hat forward over his eyes. He'd made the promise, and if it was necessary, he'd keep it, come what might.

As they approached Steep Lane, Sam sighed, and he straightened up again.

"All right, Sam?"

"Yes, sir." 

"I'll see you in the morning."

"I'll be here, sir. Thank you for supper."

"Well, couldn't let you go back to Lyminster – if you are going – without a farewell meal, could I?"

She gave him a shaky smile, and he smiled back. He wished he knew for certain whether this was Sam's last evening in Hastings; if it was, he'd invite her in and say goodbye properly.

"Eight o'clock sharp tomorrow, then," he said.

"Yes, sir."

He nodded, then got out of the car before he did anything unseemly. She drove off and he climbed the steps to his front door with a heavy heart.

* * * * * *

The following day seemed to drag once Sam had left Foyle at the station, even though it was very busy.

He was talking to Milner about the Smiths when a knock came at his office door.

"Yes?"

The door opened and there was Sam, smiling broadly at him. "Hello!"

"You're still here?" Foyle asked, wondering if she'd come to say goodbye, although the grin suggested otherwise.

"I'm afraid it's not _quite_ that easy to get rid of me," she said. "My father's changed his mind."

"So you persuaded him?"

"Ah, no sir. In fact, um, it was you and Sergeant Milner." She glanced at Milner before fixing her gaze back on him, and Foyle fought to keep a grin from his face. He raised his eyebrows at her.

"He was so excited to help solve a crime, he revised his opinion of the whole thing, and he decided that perhaps after all I was doing an important job, and that I should stay."

Milner was grinning delightedly beside him as Sam finished her explanation. "Well, that's wonderful," Foyle said, feigning off-handedness as he put on his hat and turned to Milner. "We don't have to walk."

The younger man chuckled and Sam smiled. Foyle allowed himself a smile as well as he led the way out of his office.

* * * * * *

Sam drove them to over to the Smiths in good time, and Foyle listened as she and Milner talked eagerly about the three of them going out for a drink or possibly supper after work to celebrate Sam's reprieve.

"We'll have to finish this discussion later," Foyle told them as Sam drove up to the house. "Sam, wait here please."

She nodded, her eyes twinkling at him. Milner got out of the car and began making his way to the front door as Foyle looked at Sam.

"I'm glad you're staying," he said quietly. He reached down and briefly squeezed her hand where it rested on the gear lever.

Sam's smile broadened and he saw wetness shine in her eyes. "Thank you, sir. I'm glad too." 

He gave her a nod, then climbed out of the car to join Milner. His day had been improved, but he was about to ruin someone else's, and the fact that he sympathised with Harold Smith didn't make it easier. Then again, no one had ever said being a policeman was an easy job.


End file.
